As a fresher first experiencing the Cambridge theatre scene last term, I was in awe – and, in some ways, slightly intimidated – by the incredible standard of the productions I’d seen. Surrounded by ‘actor-friends’, I even briefly considered auditioning for the Lent term productions flooding onto the Camdram vacancies page in December. Eventually, I gave up on the idea, citing an unease at being perceived on stage, as well as the sheer talent I’d be up against.

Reading Bloody Poetry’s Camdram page, however, I found myself oddly determined to get involved, despite having previously dismissed any chance of a future in theatre. The play appealed to me as an English student, but also as a vintage fashion lover – Romanticism’s most chaotic figures transposed into the eighties? I was intrigued. The production role of costume designer seemed like something I might genuinely enjoy, offering a way to get into theatre without the anxiety of memorising lines or stepping out in front of an audience. Though I’d still be perceived, this time it would be through the design choices I’d make – a prospect that excited, rather than unnerved, me.

“It appealed to me as an English student, but also as a vintage fashion lover”

Surprisingly, my slightly incoherent ramblings about my extensive experience as a Vinted warrior paid off. I learned I’d gotten the role just after term ended. Growing increasingly nervous about my capabilities to lead the costuming alone, I’d anticipated rejection, so I was even more grateful to learn I’d be working with another designer. Having a decade as iconic as the eighties to emulate was no small feat, but the Christmas holidays gave me some comfort. Most initial WhatsApp video meetings were attended from bed, where I nodded along as the director explained her artistic vision for each of the characters. Each actor also gave their opinion on what clothing would best represent their character, all of which was faithfully recorded onto a huge master spreadsheet. Pinterest boards initially did most of the talking, and, after modelling each character after a specific eighties icon, we began formulating more concrete outfits.

“Having a decade as iconic as the eighties to emulate was no small feat, but having the Christmas holidays to plan brought me some further comfort”

Though this is only the second production I’ve ever been involved in, I have a feeling that a lot more thought has gone into its costuming than the average ADC project. This is a play about literary icons, featuring a fair few Englings who actually study them. It feels only natural for us to imbue some sort of deeper meaning into these characters through their wardrobes, knowing what we now know about them. While I sometimes wonder how many of these finer details will even be processed by the audience, I find satisfaction in knowing they’re there – meaningful because they were consciously thought out and acquired.

The process is immensely gratifying: flicking between the ADC’s digitised costume store, WhatsApp chats, and my Vinted search bar. I’ve wrangled every possible combination of adjectives into Depop to find the exact corset we need and peered into every charity shop in search of the perfect scarf. Thrifting and moodboard-making – things I often did so innocuously – now seem to have a greater purpose. I’m responsible not only for clothing six actors but also for contributing to an art form I’ve found myself growing fond of.

With fittings, crafting, and customising still ahead, we’ve got plenty of ground left to cover. Yet I’m so glad I took a more active step into the world of Cambridge theatre. I look forward to seeing our work shine on stage as much as it does in our spreadsheets.

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